The night has fallen dark, but the speaker insists they don’t need daylight: good ale and brandy are their stars and moon, and deep red wine is the rising sun. A rowdy chorus calls on the landlady to tally up the tab and bring another round. There’s a sharp awareness of class—gentlemen get wealth and ease, while working folk must scrape and struggle—but inside the tavern, drink levels everyone. When you’re drunk, the speaker grins, you’re a lord. The final verse turns personal: his wooden drinking bowl becomes a holy pool that heals the wounds of worry and grief. Pleasure is a slippery trout; you’ve got to drain the bowl to catch it. The whole thing pulses with defiant, boozy warmth. There’s real melancholy beneath the swagger—hardship is never far—but the song chooses fellowship and fleeting joy over sober reality. The mood is a pub singalong that’s equal parts reckless and tender.
305. Song—Gudewife, count the lawin — Summary
GANE is the day, and mirk’s the night, But we’ll ne’er stray for faut o’ light; Gude ale and bratdy’s stars and moon, And blue-red wine’s the risin’ sun.
Chorus.—Then gudewife, count the lawin, The lawin, the lawin, Then gudewife, count the lawin, And bring a coggie mair.
There’s wealth and ease for gentlemen, And simple folk maun fecht and fen’; But here we’re a’ in ae accord, For ilka man that’s drunk’s a lord. Then gudewife, &c.
My coggie is a haly pool That heals the wounds o’ care and dool; And Pleasure is a wanton trout, An ye drink it a’, ye’ll find him out. Then gudewife, &c.